I ordered a Glenfiddich for Mila and had it waiting for her. She had been kept in a rental office near a port; she’d been found by a member of a Salvadoran cleaning crew. Howell had been questioning her. The burn marks on the soles of her feet were taking a long while to heal.

August slid onto the stool. He pointed at Mila’s drink. “Can I just down that?”

“It’s for my friend Mila, but go ahead.”

“If she drinks that, she’s my friend, too.”

I thought it best not to mention that Mila was the one who’d grazed him with a bullet in Amsterdam. “Go ahead, but it’s eleven in the morning,” I said. “Try the ginger ale, it’s perfectly cold and good.”

“But whisky means good tidings,” he said.

“I thought whisky was for wakes.”

“One man’s wake is another man’s good tidings,” August said. He cupped his hands around the glass. “The police identified you, you know. Lucy getting shot got captured on a security camera. They know you didn’t do it.”

“I know. They haven’t bothered me.”

“The Company sat on it. It took a lot of grease and muscle and loss of face. NYPD is quite particular about its officers being bested in terms of control of their firearms.”

I sipped my ginger ale. “So now the Company is shielding me?”

“They—we—oh hell,” August said. “None of us are fools. While I was being suffocated under the weight of New York’s finest, you were killing Howell.”

“If I did, they’re ignoring it. He’s the biggest embarrassment to the Company since—”

“Since Lucy. You can say it.”

“Officially, there are no prints.”

“Then it didn’t happen. Like Howell always said.” August cleared his throat, studied his drink, took a nice healthy sip. “The Company has deputized me to offer you your job back.”

“Why you?”

“They think you’ll only listen to a drinking buddy.”

“I would only listen to you, August. You were a real friend to me.” I clinked my green bottle against his whisky. “But I have to find my kid. And the Company, except for you, was quick to think me a traitor. Not a nice vote of confidence.”

“Sam, you must understand—”

“I do. I don’t want them. They had no faith in me.”

August savored his drink over several small sips. “This is why I needed the drink. You’re a bad influence. I can only hope you are going to find gainful employment.”

“I don’t care about a job. I have to find my kid.”

“How? Edward is dead, Howell is dead, Lucy may never wake up.”

Lucy was lost in a limbo between life and death, and I couldn’t decide how I felt about that. Edward’s final bullet had left her in a coma. The doctors in the CIA hospital could give me no real hope that she would wake up; but the powers that be wanted her kept alive. She was a potential source about the mystery of Novem Soles. So she lay beribboned with wires and tubes, broken. Maybe she dreamed endlessly of her precious money. Maybe she dreamed of me and our child. “I lean on the right people back in Europe, I’ll find him.”

“The Company isn’t going to let you go quietly into that good night.” August lowered his voice. “They’re going to keep a watch on your passport. They’re going to be shadowing you when you might not expect it. This whole ‘Howell working for a secret group’ has them shaken. They’d like to pretend it isn’t as frightening as it actually is. They want to know what you’re doing. Who you’re going after.”

“They can try and find out, as long as they don’t get in my way. Are you sticking with them?”

“Yes, I must get my semisuspect hands on my retirement benefits.” August shot me a sidelong look. “I’m sure, though, we’ll see each other again.”

“I’m sure, too.”

He got up and fished in his wallet.

“I got it,” I said. “Least I could do.”

“Yes, but I have a job,” he said.

“No, really, I got it. Thank you, August.”

“You will find your son, Sam. I know you will.”

“I know I will.” I watched August leave and wondered if anyone was shadowing him. I could smell the whisky left in August’s glass and I ordered one for myself.

I was just starting on its replacement when Mila slid onto the stool.

103

HELLO, SAM.”

“Mila.”

“I promised we would have a drink together when all was done.” Her bruises were healing, but there was a sadness in her eyes instead of the steel I was used to in her gaze. I gestured at the bartender. He brought her a Glenfiddich without being told.

I said, “That doesn’t go with painkillers.”

“Americans have obsessive worry about drug interactions. So risk-averse.”

“With such a nice place, why did you go drink at Ollie’s?”

“I would like to buy Ollie’s bar, as he said. He won’t sell.”

“Two bars in one city?”

“Brooklyn and Manhattan are two different concepts.” She glanced around. “Oh, yes, I like bars. Bluecut is really marvelous.”

“I like bars, too.”

“Good,” she said. “Would you like this one?”

I glanced at her. “I like this one just fine.”

“You misunderstand. Would you like to own it? Bluecut, and all the bars we have? The Adrenaline in London, the Rode Prins in Amsterdam, Taverne Chevalier in Brussels? We have many more: in Las Vegas, Sydney, Miami, Paris, Moscow, all around the world. I think we’re up to thirty.”

She had to be kidding so I laughed. “Sure. You and I can go have a drink in each one. After I have my son back.”

“Sam. My employers are interested in retaining your services. You did extraordinary work for us.”

“Was Bahjat Zaid part of your Round Table? One of the rich and powerful members?”

She didn’t show surprise that I knew the Round Table name. She said, “Yes, he was. He supplied us in the past.”

“He wasn’t such a nice guy.”

“He was a desperate man, trying to save a daughter. He made poor choices.”

I started to shake my head, but Mila deserved better than scorn. “I don’t even know who you people are.” And I remembered what I’d said in London to the suits, about networks that came together only to do work, snapped apart and re-formed in new shapes, some so powerful and with such reach that they had infiltrated government. I’d talked about criminal networks that way; perhaps the Round Table was such an informal network, but a force for good. Novem Soles could be its opposite, the dark to its light.

“Together we stopped Edward. We stopped Howell. You know we’re on the side of the angels.”

“I’ve had enough mystery. I have enough mystery. I have to find my son.”

“Sam. Do you trust me?”

“Yes.” That wasn’t a hard decision. I did trust Mila. She was halfway to crazy, and she was unpredictable, but I could see a core of decency that ran through her clear as iron in stone.

“There’s a reason certain people inside the Company don’t want you to find your child,” she said quietly.

“What?”

She slid a piece of paper over to me. It read: AGENT CAPRA CAN ONLY BE CONTROLLED BY HIS DESIRE TO FIND HIS CHILD. ALL FILES ON CAPRA ARE CLASSIFIED DUE TO and then long black lines of redaction. “That is from a highest-classification file. Whoever has taken your child, the powers that be wish to keep that person’s identity a secret. Out of a desire to control you.”

I stared at her. “I don’t believe this.”

“I think the Company would like to help you. I am not at all indicting the CIA. But there is a secret cabal inside it, I believe, connected to Howell; perhaps he was only their tool. These people will block you at every turn. If you try and work inside with them, your quest for Daniel will be futile.” She took a long, savoring sip of her whisky. “I do not like being the bearer of bad news.”

“Why would this be so?” But then I thought of my work in London. Criminal networks, tied into governments. It had happened across Europe; now it was happening here.